Steve could still remember what it felt like when Bucky was there. How his skin would burn after Bucky’s lips brushed across it, how his heart would jump at the sound of Bucky’s laugh. All he could think of as he sat on his bed now, was the way Bucky would shove Steve roughly onto the soft mattress, the way he would clutch the sheets as he moaned, how he’d wrap the duvet around them both after. Now, his heart ached as he looked to the space where Bucky used to sleep. The night he left, Steve collapsed on his side of the bed, trying desperately to create the warmth he knew only Bucky could. He hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep since then. Some nights, he wouldn’t sleep at all, just stay awake staring into nothing as he replayed everything over and over, driving himself crazy. Some nights, Steve would drift into an uneasy sleep and wake up half an hour later, Bucky’s name falling from his lips and into the pillow as he wiped his wet eyes.
Some days, Nat would come over to the empty apartment and sit with Steve in silence, trying to feel less useless to him. Some days, she’d try to take him out, try to get his mind off Bucky. She’d drop her eyes and lower her voice as she said, ‘it’s been months. He’s not coming back, Steve.’ And Steve would have to feel a thousand knives in his heart at her words. ‘We hate seeing you like this.’ Her voice was full of concern. ‘You need to move on.’ She could say all she wanted about forgetting Bucky, but Steve knew, when her eyes looked back to his, that she missed him, too. The others would silently agree with her, each trying their own way to help him through it. Sam would go to his apartment every day during the first few weeks, make him breakfast and make sure he did something other than just stay in bed all day. The twins would try to make him laugh whenever he was in the room, Pietro running around Wanda and tripping her over when she tried to get out of the confusing silvery blur. Steve would try and fake it for them, try and convince them that he was okay, but they all seemed to know him better than he knew himself.
And as Steve sat on the bed, running the white sheets through his fingers, he couldn’t help remembering the night Bucky left.
It was one of the worse nights. Steve hated himself for not seeing the way Bucky’s metal arm was more tense than usual, the way it always was when he was starting to panic. And when Bucky started to breathe in and out deeply, his eyes wide and confused, Steve had gotten to him a little too late. Bucky was already lost in his memories, in the person he thought he still was. He pushed Steve away too roughly with his metal arm and started saying, in a lost, scared voice that Steve wished he had never heard, that he was the worst person in the world. Steve’s heart broke to see him like that again – he hadn’t been like that for a long time. And the more Steve tried to reason with him, the more Bucky drifted away. And then Bucky had taken one last look at Steve, managed a heartbreaking smile, his eyes bright with tears, and had turned and left. It had happened a few times before, where Bucky had left and come back the next morning once he had calmed himself down. Once he had forced himself to believe he wasn’t the person he used to be. But Steve felt like it was different this time. And it was.
And he missed him more than anything. He missed him more than he had the first time he thought Bucky was dead, all that time ago, when the war was still going on and Peggy had helped him find him. It hurt more than when Bucky had fallen off that train. It hurt more than the memory of Steve wondering for a second if he should jump after him, not because he thought he could save him, but he thought he could be with him even if it meant they were both dead, because surely being dead with Bucky was better than being alive without him. And, god, this hurt way more than when he saw Bucky with the black smudged around his terrified eyes, asking who the hell he was. Those painful memories seemed happy in comparison to this, because this time, Steve didn’t understand why. And he knew, somewhere in his empty chest, that Bucky didn’t understand either, and that’s why he had left. And it killed him every day, to have to drag himself out of bed and try and pretend like everything was fine. He’d become reckless on missions, or so Fury said. Getting told off for always putting himself in the line of fire when there was a safer option that didn’t put his life at risk. Pretending to ignore everyone else looking to each other in concern when Steve didn’t defend his actions like he used to. The team would watch Steve with sad eyes when Tony mentioned it was his and Pepper’s anniversary, remembering the first time he and Bucky celebrated theirs, and how they’d nearly burnt the kitchen down trying to cook a nice meal. They’d watch the hurt chase itself across his face when Nat and Clint would share a quick kiss before they left on a mission, recalling how Bucky and Steve would always do the same, holding each other’s hands until they were forced to let go. When Wanda announced, to Pietro’s horror, with red cheeks that she was going on her first real date, they’d all smile, excited for her but looking warily to Steve, who had a smile he couldn’t quite put his whole heart into, because the memory of when he and Bucky had announced the same thing to the group was still too raw.
And now, two months after Bucky had left, Steve was drowning in memories of almosts and could’ve-beens. They haunted him all the time. Their first kiss, unsure and soft, the memory of how Steve was so close to telling Bucky he loved him after that, but he didn’t. When Bucky had muttered into Steve’s neck that he needed him in the dead of night when he thought he was sleeping, and how Steve had almost said the same, but the lump in his throat made sure no words were able to come out. Steve feeling his stomach knot at Bucky’s smile, wishing that he had filled every quiet moment by telling Bucky how much he loved the way one corner of his mouth would twitch upwards right before he grinned.
The bed sheets felt like paper in his fingers. The thought of whether Bucky felt just as broken, just as alone now as he did kept him up at night. Sighing, Steve forced himself to stop fidgeting, instead resting his arms on his legs, leaning forward, a thousand thoughts running through his mind.
Maybe they had both screwed it up. Maybe they weren’t meant for this. Maybe their time had passed, all those years ago. Maybe they had missed their chance, and everything else after that was just extra time that they hadn’t made use of. Maybe it was better this way.
Steve didn’t know what he would do tomorrow, or the next day, or after that, alone in their apartment without Bucky. But Steve knew that the sharp aching in his heart would stay until Bucky returned, and so would he, for as long as he took.
He’d be there waiting if he ever came back.